


all the colours of the rainbow fell in my eyes

by copperiisulfate



Category: K (Anime)
Genre: Character Study, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-28
Updated: 2012-11-28
Packaged: 2017-11-19 18:11:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,255
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/576187
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/copperiisulfate/pseuds/copperiisulfate
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Homra is still there, like smoke behind his eyes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	all the colours of the rainbow fell in my eyes

**Author's Note:**

> An exercise in which I more or less try to get a handle on Mikoto's headspace. New canon is probably going to trample it tomorrow or something. Can be read as gen or Mikoto/Reisi if you squint. Title from _Yellow Brick Road_ by Angus and Julia Stone.

 

He dreams of baseball diamonds.

They weave in and out of each other, a rough collage of Yata scratching up the pavement by the bar, Kusanagi's scowl and Totsuka's laughter, of Anna's hand in his own and her eyes on the marbles, swirling and swirling in circles on the rosewood.

They bleed seamlessly into smoke rising high into the sky, all that was far too good to last, of Munakata's eyes falling shut before him as his saber runs clean through Mikoto’s heart--

 

 

He jerks awake, rubs sleep away from his face along with the cold water because, of course, the Blue King has found his way inside his cell once again.

“Really, Munakata" he mutters, "No need to get so extravagant on my account. A simple good morning would have sufficed.”

His vision adjusts to the light and his eyes narrow at the tray before him. “Did they run out of boring paperwork up there or was there no one else around to do petty chores?”

For all of his usual chattiness, it seems that Munakata is not up for small talk today. “There’s a rumour going around that the Red King is kind of a masochist, likes provoking all the wrong people, likes staying locked up, as if,” he adds pointedly, "he can't help it."

Mikoto breathes out like he's been doing much else, half-heartedly, says, “That must make you the sadist then.”

It earns him a twitch of the lips but not enough to be a full-fledged smile. "So, you still haven't arrived at a decision then?"  

Mikoto picks at the rice with his chopsticks, making a mess more than anything.

"I thought that was  _your_ job around here."

"Let’s be honest,” Munakata sighs, exasperated, as if talking to a child, “neither of us wants to deal with this set-up if we can help it. It is really not as difficult as you're making it out to be."

There's so much in there that's so far from honest that Mikoto’s not sure if it could go more easily in the direction of comical or downright dangerous if he starts to pick it apart.

“Let’s be honest,” he parrots back, too lazy for it to be vicious, and he doesn’t know what the point of this is anymore, doesn’t know what it is Munakata wants from him because Mikoto has already made up his mind. “If I wanted out, you'd hear about it.”

“Then what is it that you want?” For all his cool composure, he seems genuinely perplexed. _Rightly so_ , Mikoto thinks. He's an anomaly of a prisoner if there ever was one, hears the guards talk about it, hushed whispers of:  _What kind of a man gives up like that? What kind of a King?_ He's fairly certain he's not meant to hear it. Even with him behind bars, they are afraid. All of them save for Munakata.

Mikoto smiles, feels a hundred years older than he is when he says, “Nothing. Honest.”

And that’s kind of the problem, isn’t it? People like Munakata start to crack when the rules aren't clear, when there’s no task at hand, nothing being demanded of them. And part of him can’t help but wonder if Munakata is always so eager to please when it comes to his prisoners or if Mikoto is some kind of twisted exception to the rule. Maybe it’s just out of respect for another King because, of course, Munakata would indulge in that kind of bullshit.

(Sometimes, it’s easy to forget that he is also Mikoto’s age, still young and new at this, trying so hard and still able to falter so easily in the grand scheme of things.  He is playing a dangerous game as it is, harbouring something this volatile. Mikoto has tried to spot weaknesses in his armour before but instead, all he finds is ironclad resolve. As foolish and idealistic as it may be, he cannot question that it's there in spades, in the sharp line of his mouth, the set of his shoulders. Sometimes, Mikoto almost envies him for it.)

He sets the bowl down and pushes his tray away. “Thank you for the meal.”

Munakata frowns, eyes on the food which is untouched save for grains of rice fallen out of place. “You’re not much use to anyone dead.” 

 _Or alive_ , he thinks, wants to laugh at it a little. Mikoto is neither oblivious nor ignorant enough to assume this is about his nutrition. No, this is the conversation they have been having and also not having from the start, the one Munakata refuses to put to rest even if Mikoto would much rather be sleeping it off. It would be touching, his poorly-veiled concern, in another time, another place. Presently, Mikoto has no use for it and if it continues in this vein, it's going to do more harm than good for both of them.

“ _Thank you_ , Munakata,” he repeats emphatically, turns his back to the king and closes his eyes. 

"Suoh," and Munakata's voice is soft, softer than it has any right to be, and it’s kind of wretched, all of this, because the last thing he needs is pity from the Blue King. "We'll get him, Suoh."

And Mikoto doesn’t know whether to laugh or scream. He has never resented the Blues more than in this moment. _It's not your fucking job_ , he wants to bark out loud, even though, officially, it very much is.

Still, Mikoto’s fingers curl. _He wasn’t your family so don’t pretend like you understand._

For all this talk about the Kagutsu crater and the next one to come, there’s another crater out there that no one sees and only a few know its name. It has no sharp edges but is all smiles and heart and vintage jukeboxes and soft music instead. It haunts and haunts with empty promises that would mean nothing to anyone but Mikoto sees him and hears them all the same, a constant reminder under the crushing weight.

Munakata can’t undo any of it with any amount of blades or gunpowder or his laughable sense of righteousness and justice. It will never be enough but it is both infuriating and admirable that he tries.

It might have been different, simpler, if they were different people under different pretenses. As it stands, Munakata keeps bleeding his stifling version of empathy all over him and it’s running entirely counterpoint to this game they are playing. They both know that Mikoto is running out of time now, that the day is coming soon when he is going to need to be put out like a forest-fire and someone is going to need to be committed enough to do it. He can’t let Munakata go soft on him now.  

The silence tells him that he is left alone in the cell once more. Alone in a manner of speaking anyway. Homra is still there, like smoke behind his eyes, a piercing on his ear and through his heart. Dead or alive, all of them are there like they are always going to be there, in his blood and bones, all over his skin and under it.

 

 

(When he dreams again it is predominantly of circles: a circle of friends around him, a circle of fire around him, Munakata's arms around him, his apology raw in Mikoto's ear and how he never wanted history to repeat itself, to come full circle, not like this--

The blade comes from behind Mikoto's back.

It's quick like lightning, painless, freeing.)

 


End file.
